Dream Root
by SuperSonic21
Summary: Sam is attacked by a shtriga, and ends up in a coma. It's up to Castiel to get him out. Sastiel, h/c, 4.6k.


AN: I really can't stop writing sastiel and i have things to do, send help

So this takes place in a universe where everything is the same except Castiel didn't have to leave after 9x03 and he's hunting with the Winchesters. Enjoy!

* * *

For the first time, Castiel was beginning to understand the tendency for humans to have an aversion to hospitals.

When he hadn't been human himself, he'd thought of them as a simple black-and-white affair: people either went there to be cured, or to die. There would be no reason to become worried or anxious just at the sight or smell of them; they were only there to help. He supposed that maybe he'd not really thought the concept through all that often, having been able to heal himself and those he cared for in the blink of an eye in days gone by.

But now, sitting at Sam's bedside with the smell of disinfectant and stark, unappealing white lights assaulting his senses, he finally understood. The unease, the hope, and the despair – being unable to do anything to help the one you loved, in their time of need.

Sam was pale. He'd been that way ever since the shtriga had latched onto his life force and started feeding at an alarming pace. This case had looked so simple to start with: one particular housing estate, many children in unexplained comas. But when they'd been trying to locate the house the shtriga had been targeting that night, Sam had insisted on splitting up to cover more ground. And, of course, had ended up the one under attack.

Dean had managed to kill it before it could finish the job – and, if it had been he or Dean that had suffered the attack, that would have been the end of it. But, because it was Sam, the consequences had been much more severe: having been fed on twice by a shtriga in his life, he'd simply not had the ability to fend off yet another long, sustained attack on his life force.

Cas cursed himself: if he'd got there sooner, Sam would have been a little worse for wear – but completely treatable, within the realms of modern medical science. But he was too far gone, now. It had taken too much from him.

He rubbed a hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes as if when he opened them, Sam would be opening his own and smiling up at him; pulling him down for a greeting kiss. _Welcome back_.

But when he opened them, he saw the same pale, grey body; heard the same wheezing, laboured breaths. The doctors were treating him for pneumonia: Cas didn't know much about human pathophysiology, but he knew that diseases of the body were a totally different matter to diseases of the life-force.

So Sam wouldn't wake up. In fact, the doctors said he was deteriorating. People kept coming into the room and getting Dean to try and talk to them about 'options' and 'what he would have wanted', as if he was – as if he were already-

Cas reached out impulsively to place his hand over Sam's still-beating heart. The beat was weaker than normal, when he pressed his palm to Sam's bare chest under the covers in his room back at the bunker. Usually, Sam would be running a few degrees above the human norm, with his heart beating a sweet, deafening dance beneath his tattoo.

Castiel bit his lip, trying to blink back tears, when Sam didn't reach up and press his hand against his face, like he usually did.  
"Don't worry about me," He would say. "I'm not going anywhere,"

Cas didn't even notice that Dean had come back until he heard a faint voice somewhere behind him – a few metres, and thousand miles – who cared, when he could barely hear the sound that mattered to him the most?

". . . Oh," Dean acknowledged Cas' private, emotional moment with an embarrassed cough.  
"It's quite alright Dean. You deserve to spend time with him more than I do," Cas sighed, going to stand up.  
"No – no, don't-" Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Don't go. He'd want you here. No matter how awkward and chick-flick it gets," He added, smirking half-heartedly to himself.

Cas tried a weak smile, though with Sam's limp body in his peripheral vision, it was a difficult task.  
"I brought you coffee – I know you don't really drink it, but . . . It's the only thing that can make this situation any better," Dean explained in a low voice, taking the seat on the opposite side of Sam's bed.  
"Aside from a solution," Cas agreed, taking the coffee Dean offered gratefully.

". . . Yeah," Dean's eyes, clouded with worry, scanned Cas up and down, before flicking to his brother's face: it was more sunken than before. His batteries were almost completely drained, and it was showing. He frowned, wondering how to broach the next topic.

"Cas . . . I think – I think I might have a solution," Dean told his friend tentatively.  
"What? What is it, Dean?" Cas asked urgently. Dean sighed, and began rummaging in his jacket pocket for a moment, before retrieving a small, clear plastic bag with some form of plant in it.

". . . It's _this_. It's a – well, it's African dream root,"  
"Used for entering the dreams of others," Cas remembered, having been keeping close enough tabs of the lives of the Winchesters that he recognised the name of a herb they used sometimes to solve cases. "I do not understand. How will that help?"  
"I had Kevin dig through the Men of Letters file on this stuff. It's been used to wake people from comas before. They can be shocked into waking, under the right circumstances,"  
"Which are?" Cas demanded.  
"Complicated – which is why I'm thinking it's probably one of the most stupid ideas I've ever had. And that's saying something," He added thoughtfully.  
"Explain them to me. I am willing to try anything," Cas dismissed quickly. Dean was surprised for a moment by the matter-of-fact voice Castiel used to say those heavy words with.

"You've gotta be able to get to what they call the 'central memory' . . ." Dean frowned, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a copiously folded piece of paper and unfolding it. He scanned the paper for a moment, his mouth moving as he reviewed his notes.  
"Ah – here it is. So, this memory you find – it's like, the eye of the storm. It's gonna be – not insignificant, but private, and hard to find. Usually highly secret or of high value, for either a positive or negative reason. And if you can get through to the sleeper in that memory . . . Then you can wake them,"

"Give it to me," Cas demanded, reaching over Sam with one gentle hand on his shoulder. "I will do it,"  
"Wait a sec-" Dean cautioned. "I mean – I really, _really _want you to go in there and get Sammy out, but-" He paused, looking at his brother's gaunt face. He felt nauseous that he had to put his friend in this situation, but . . . They both wanted Sammy back. More than anything. And if they couldn't – if they just sat back, and did nothing, and let him-

"You can get stuck in there – end up like him. There's even a little debate about whether the stuff you see in there can hurt you – like, the Matrix,"  
"I do not understand that reference," Cas told him, shaking his head with a serious frown of concentration. He listened to Dean's every word with extreme care. It was his best bet of Sam getting out of this alive.  
"Your mind makes it real. Any injury you get in there – there's a chance your brain gets a little trigger-happy, and you end up hurt in the real world . . . You could die, Cas. I really wish I could do this myself, but-"  
"But I know my way around his mind better, having been in it a few times myself. I know, Dean," He finished, recalling taking the burden of Hell from Sam's mind; and, horrifically, breaking Sam's wall. There wasn't a day that he didn't regret that action, regardless of the fact that he had, eventually, atoned.

There was a moment of silence, where the two men looked at each other: Cas' desperate eyes searched Dean's for why he was hesitating to hand him the dream root. Dean's searched Cas' for a reason not to trust the former-angel.

It all just felt too . . . He didn't know. It felt a little like he was passing the gauntlet on. He couldn't do this for Sam: he couldn't look after Sammy. He had to let someone else, this time.

Slowly, he reached out to Cas, and handed him the bag. Just as Cas was about to take it, Dean hesitated, pulling away slightly:  
"He's my brother," He said, though Cas didn't know if he was trying to threatening him, or if he was pleading with him.  
"I know, Dean. And I won't give up on him," He swore.

He took the bag, and deposited the root into his hand. Gently with his other hand, he plucked a hair from Sam's still head. Dean shook himself, took a deep breath, and let go:  
"Let's do it,"

* * *

"If it bleeds, you can kill it,"

Sam fired three bullets into the chest of one of the two clowns that were chasing him, gritting his teeth and hoping for the best.

Of course, hoping wasn't always enough.

The thing just spurted fucking _glitter _out of the bullet wounds. Sam froze up, and expression of pure horror on his face, as the clown smiled sinisterly and began to cackle. It reared back for a vicious right hook, and dealt the blow, causing Sam to stumble back into the other clown, who was equally as brutal. Nothing he did made any difference; he couldn't fight them off.

He was going to be killed by a pair of clowns.

Castiel watched curiously as the scene unfolded in front of him. Rather than progress, the fight just seemed to repeat over and over, with the horrifying realisation that he couldn't kill the clowns plaguing Sam on a continuous loop. As he watched, Castiel realised that yes, he was already on the right track: this was certainly a memory Sam would want to keep a secret.

Sam was embarrassed about his fear of clowns. Castiel didn't understand it, himself – not the fear, but the embarrassment. The clowns attacking him were undoubtedly malevolent, and it was only rational to fear them.

But the question was, would he be able to get through to Sam in this memory? Would he be able to shock him? Dean had said he'd only get a response in the eye of the storm – in the most secret, or highly-valued memory (whether it be negative or positive). This certainly seemed negative . . .  
"Sam. Sam, you are dreaming. This is a memory," He called to Sam.

"If it bleeds, you can kill it," Sam panted. The memory continued on its infinite loop. Cas sighed, and unhappily walked to the door of the garage they were located in. This was clearly not the memory he was looking for.

He twisted the doorknob and, stepping through, found himself in a motel room. He was surprised at the presence of Sam's father in this memory; of Dean, uncharacteristically quiet and self-contained in the corner of the room, enveloped in shadow. He'd heard about this memory before.

An 18 year old Sam came bolting out of the bathroom door, face angry and upset, carrying two duffel bags. Cas marvelled at how lean Sam had been as an adolescent, considering his physique now . . . Aside from during the malaise he was currently suffering from.

Castiel refocused on the memory.

"If you walk out of that door, don't you _ever_ come back!" Sam's father bellowed, chest heaving with barely-contained anger. Sam paused when he reached the door Castiel had entered through, his hands squeezing the handles of the duffel bags tightly. For a moment, there was genuine consideration of what he should do in his eyes; it was extinguished only a second later. Cas smiled sadly, as he recognised the headstrong man he would one day love in the stubborn teenager that stood before him.

"Fine. Have it your way," Sam growled, not even turning around before he left.

The memory started all over again. Cas felt for Sam: he knew that, if Sam were trying to find _his_ most significant memory, abandoning his Father would certainly be one of the top contenders for the title. Falling from grace was hard as an angel; he was beginning to see that, as a human, turning your back on your father could be just as hard.

He strode over to the bathroom door Sam would emerge from, and when he did, he stood in the way, and said once more:  
"Sam. Sam, you are dreaming. This is a memory,"

But, aside from one second's pause and a flicker of something like recognition, 18 year old Sam just carried on: he walked right through Castiel, and towards the door, to abandon his family all over again, for what he thought was right.

Cas gave up, and walked through the bathroom door.

Inside, he found himself in a dilapidated house: the windows were partially boarded up, but the occasional ray of sunshine made it through, though it had to contend with the vines and vegetation that had made their way onto the side of the house. But that wasn't what interested Castiel, though: Sam and Ruby stood in the centre of the room, beside the deceased body of a man who was one the host of a demon. There was a bed in the room, and copious amounts of empty liquor bottles. There were discarded drug bottles, too.

Ruby was kissing Sam. But not for long.  
"What are you doing?" Sam asked, shocked and a little perturbed as he backed away from her.  
"Sam, it's okay," She soothed, approaching him again. Cas gulped, not liking where this situation was heading.  
"Sam, it's a – you're dreaming, it's a memory," He stuttered out, hoping to make contact. He hoped that this wasn't the memory he was looking for.

Aside from pausing for a moment as if he'd heard something, Sam didn't acknowledge him.  
"No," He told her as she got closer, "That's anything but okay,"  
"What's wrong?" She asked.  
"What's wrong?! Where do I start?" He floundered.

Castiel started to look for a door – but the next room he saw, only lead to the same scene. He didn't want to see this. Not because of jealousy, but just because . . .

It was hard to watch. He loved Sam dearly, and seeing him – _seeing her_ – he just looked so _wrong_. Completely distraught and off the rails, and what was about to happen next would only serve to worsen his mental state.

"Is it because of the body?" No, Castiel thought: Sam had never had a problem with _his_ vessel. Perhaps because it was consensual, and perhaps because Jimmy wasn't around anymore. But his problem certainly wasn't with her vessel. "Because I told you – it's all me inside of here," She continued, "There's no one else. And it's nice in this body, Sam . . . Soft, and warm . . ."

Cas grew angry, and searched frantically for another door. Every corridor he went down in the old house had many rooms, but they were all the same; all filled with Sam and Ruby.  
"What are you doing?" Sam asked her.  
"Isn't it cause you're really scared to go there with a demon? Because it's wrong, and it's bad, and we shouldn't?" She asked wickedly, as they began to take their clothes off.

Everywhere he went, Castiel couldn't get the image of them to go away. Just the noise of it made him want to gag – he could smell sulphur, and burning, and he was getting desperate – so he did the only thing he could, and smashed a window, so he could jump through.

Where he landed, he recognised: it was Stull cememtery. In fact, he could see himself now, holding a Molotov cocktail.  
"Hey, assbutt!" He'd yelled bravely, and thrown the weapon at his older brother. Michael had gone up in flames with a great scream of fury, leaving him at Lucifer's mercy. He and Dean had shared a few words regarding his creative insult, and then –  
"Castiel. Did you just Molotov my brother with holy fire?" Lucifer asked angrily in Sam's voice.  
"Uh . . . No?" He watched himself say, with a shrug. He almost blushed at how illogical it was to say such a thing.

Then Lucifer snapped his fingers. And he exploded.

"Sammy? Can you hear me?" That was Dean, always holding out hope for his brother, even in the direst of circumstances. Castiel thought to himself that he'd done the same thing in their current situation, too: he'd bet on Cas being able to find this central memory of Sam's, but it seemed he was getting nowhere; doing nothing, except invading Sam's personal memories, and upsetting himself.

He watched sadly, then, as Lucifer took Dean by the lapels, and slammed them into the side of the car that was their childhood home. His mouth was a grim line, as he watched Lucifer say:  
"You know, I tried to be nice. For Sammy's sake. But you . . . Are such a pain in my ass," Lucifer's grip tightened on Dean's coat, before he threw him onto the Impala's windshield, smashing it.

Cas' heart fluttered with grief at the sight of the few minutes he hadn't witnessed: Bobby's death, and Lucifer beating Sam's brother to a pulp.

Then, the closest thing to a modern-day miracle Castiel would ever witness: the glint of an ashtray, with an army-man stuffed into it.

For Castiel, experiencing it for the first time, Sam's battle with Lucifer was unbelievable: he watched incredulously as, improbably, in the end, it was Sam that was in control; Lucifer that was a prisoner in the body they shared.

"It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay," He said, and Cas felt tears spring to his eyes at the obvious untruth he was comforting his brother with. "I've got him,"

He watched as Sam opened the door to the cage and, just before Michael arrived, chose to call out:  
"You're dreaming, Sam. This is just a memory,"

This time, Sam looked in his general direction for a moment, frowning, his hair whipping about his face. "Hello?" He asked.  
"It's me, Sam. It's Castiel! You're dreaming!" He yelled, though he could barely hear himself above the wind; the roaring of the chasm that lead to the deepest pits of hell. Hopefully he wouldn't have to jump this time.

But then Michael was there, pleading with Sam to let him fight his brother, and Cas knew he hadn't found what he was looking for yet.

So, when Sam jumped into the cage, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped in after him.

* * *

Castiel found himself walking along a long, quiet corridor in the Men of Letters bunker. He startled, and looked around: no fire, no ice; no Michael, or Lucifer. Just . . . The bunker.

Had he woken already? Had he succeeded?

But it was quiet – oh, so quiet. And there was Sam's door, with golden light emanating from the small gap between the door and frame. Cas frowned – what could be so private, so valued, that had taken place in the bunker?

He slowly yet steadily walked to Sam's door, and opened it slowly, afraid of what might be inside after all he'd witnessed.

The sight he saw took his breath away not due to panic, or fear, or a sudden wave of sadness: it was simply . . . A surprise.

The scene was the picture of calm. Sam lay in bed, bare chested, with the sheets tugged up to his abdomen. His eyes were half-lidded, and he looked incredibly relaxed.

He was looking down, at where Cas was sleeping with his head nestled into Sam's chest, and one of Sam's hands threaded in his hair. Cas had no memory of this – but, then, he had been asleep at the time.

It appeared to be morning, he gathered, from looking out of the one small window in the roof of Sam's room. Blue skies, with gentle, golden light in a beam falling into the room. Sam was content just to rest, though he wasn't sleeping, with Castiel napping on him.

Cas was so overcome with pleasant emotion that it made him want to sob: somewhere, amongst the betrayal and the heartbreak and the fear, Sam had a memory that was just _good_. And it involved him.  
". . . Sam," He said quietly.  
"Shh," Sam told him, not looking up. "You'll wake him," He whispered, referring to the sleeping Castiel.

Cas' mouth snapped shut. Sam had just spoken directly to him: he knew he was there. Cas strode towards him carefully, like one might approach a wounded animal; he felt as if the whole thing could be snatched away at any moment. He simply couldn't look at any more of Sam's most secret memories.

But, this . . . This wasn't secret, but it was private. And the fact that he could make contact with Sam directly, and it was completely quiet, and calm . . . That meant this was the eye of the storm.

This meant that this – this simple, happy, fleeting moment – was one of the most valued memories Sam possessed.  
"Sam, it's Castiel . . . You're dreaming. This is a memory,"

Sam finally moved his gaze away from the Castiel in his arms, and looked up at Cas. His eyes widened in shock.  
"Cas? But – but-" He looked down, but the other Cas was gone now. "What-"  
"Wake up, Sam," Castiel urged him, putting a hand on the side of Sam's face, and he began to sit up, wide-eyed and shocked, as Cas urged him once more, "Wake up-"

* * *

Sam sat up suddenly, at exactly the same moment as Cas jumped into wakefulness where his head had previously been slumped on the side of Sam's bed.

Panting from shock, and his heartbeat thundering loudly in his ears, Sam cast his gaze around. A hospital? – but – but he'd just been in bed with-

"C-Cas?" He asked between large gulps of air, staring at where the angel, equally shocked at their sudden consciousness, was staring back at him.  
"Good to see you too, brother," He heard Dean's voice, and tracked it to where it came from: Dean was sitting on his other side, his face looking haggard from worry and exhaustion. Despite that, though, he looked unbelievably happy. He handed Sam a cup of water, knowing that his brother would be extremely thirsty.

"You took your time," Dean added, looking at his watch. The statement was directed at Castiel, who rubbed his eyes and asked,  
"How long was I . . . ?"  
"Five hours. Time flies, eh?" Dean joked, though it was clear that he – being the only one of them who'd experienced the wait in real time – had been extremely worried.

"Yeah . . ." Sam agreed vaguely, though he wasn't looking at Dean: he was looking at Cas, who was staring at him with such an expression of love and relief that it was kind of hard to concentrate on anything else. He didn't even realise the former-angel had been grasping his hand until he squeezed it.

Sensing the moment between the two of them, Dean coughed lightly, and muttered, "Chick-flick moments," Sam looked up at him with an unamused, somewhat-threatening expression.  
"Uh . . . I'm gonna go and see about some discharge papers – you know, AMA," He added, though clearly, Sam was alright now. There might be a period of recovery, but now that he'd woken from the coma, all the literature pointed to the fact that he wouldn't slip back into it again.

Which Castiel was very grateful for.

When Dean had left, Sam turned to Cas:  
"So . . . How long was I out?" He asked, sipping the water as slowly as he could manage.  
"Two days. But . . . You deteriorated rapidly," The former-angel replied, the memory of the worry he'd felt clearly etched onto his face.  
"How did you . . . I mean, you were in my dreams – I was reliving old memories," Sam remembered with a pensive expression.  
"Dean obtained some African dream root. He told me to go into your mind, and try and wake you. I, being the only one who has had intimate contact with your mind, was better equipped. There was also a small . . . _Risk_, associated with the task,"  
"What risk?" Sam asked tentatively.  
"There was a . . . Small chance, that I could have – that I could have also slipped into a coma, or been injured. But, fortunately-" He hid the fist he'd punched the window with in the dream under his sleeve – _Sam didn't need to see that it had been cut and torn as collateral damage, Dean could sew it up later, he could make an excuse_, "-That did not happen,"

Sam punched him on the shoulder lightly, with a pseudo-angry expression on his face.  
"Don't pull that crap again," He reprimanded. Cas just smiled.  
"Only if you promise to do the same," He countered, looking around at the hospital equipment that surrounded Sam pointedly. Sam sighed, but smiled anyway in spite of himself.

"Alright. It's a deal," He agreed. Cas smiled back, and leant in for a kiss.  
"I've been asleep for like, two days, Sam protested, suddenly feeling self-conscious and disgusting.  
"It doesn't matter. You are always beautiful to me," Cas replied simply, causing Sam to blush a little. He bit his lip.  
". . . Even with all that stuff you saw?" Sam asked quietly. Cas pulled away for a moment, still holding Sam's hand. He studied Sam's eyes for a moment, and realised that, specifically, he was talking about the memory with Ruby.

"That specific memory . . . Was a hard memory to bear witness to," He acknowledged. Sam looked down in shame. Cas frowned, and moved his hand from Sam's hand to his chin, tilting his head upwards.  
"But it was not your fault. And I do not think any less of you. It was only hard to see you in such emotional pain that, had I still been an angel and sensitive to the psychic pain of others . . . It would have been extremely difficult to even be present,"

"Sorry you had to see all those things," Sam apologised again, looking up into Cas' eyes, and still clearly thinking that he needed to atone. Cas shook his head, but Sam continued. "And thank you for saving me. Again,"  
"You are welcome. Always," Cas whispered his usual reply, and kissed Sam, cupping his cheeks, and trying – as he always did – to make Sam forget all the horrible things that had happened to him.

It was an impossible task, but he would try anyway. For Sam.

* * *

ALSO IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW I CAN GET MY ALERTS TO START WORKING AGAIN, it would be much appreciated if you'd let me know :) Thanks!


End file.
